


the way snow touches bare skin

by winchysteria



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Awkward First Times, First Kiss, Future Fic, Getting Back Together, Getting Together, Growing Up, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, both of those things, look just trust me, not happy but not like sad, now its happy lmao, the happy bit will come tomorrow probably
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2018-11-28
Packaged: 2019-02-05 01:51:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12784368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchysteria/pseuds/winchysteria
Summary: lately i have been seeing a lot of "dex and nursey get together in the future when they have both grown up a lot" and im honestly very into it. here is my contribution. i started it at 11:54 pm





	1. Dex / Nursey

**Author's Note:**

> the title is from ocean vuong's "devotion," and im sorry i slandered his good name for my garbage fanfic.  
> [here i am on tumblr!](http://winchysteria.tumblr.com/)

The sky over the reading room isn't black, exactly. It's too far away and too wide-open to be black. It's more like a pavement gray, dark and continuous, all the streetlights flaring up into it. Dex can see the outline of the trees-- in black-- against it. He's stoned, and he rolls his head back and forth against the paneling of the Haus because it feels good. It's smoking weather, Ford had said, inhaling the cold, crisp air like a chef smelling soup. Lots of people said windy days were best, because the smell wafted away faster, but Ford had this theory that on a sharp night, the smoke just had nowhere to go. It froze in the air in front of you, waiting for the sun to come back out and warm it up.

Dex lets his head roll over toward Nursey. There are about six inches of space between their faces, on average: less than three between their foreheads, more like a foot between their mouths. Nursey nods slowly, and Dex isn't sure if he's itching his temple on the side of the Haus or if he's agreeing to something Dex forgot he said. It's only just past winter, and Nursey's freckles are still in hiding. He is an even shade of tiger's-eye brown, and everything from his lips to his eyelashes swoops gently down and out. Dex realizes, too late, that this probably means Nursey is looking at his mouth. "Hey, Nurse," he says, just to say something, and regrets it when Nursey's glance flicks up to meet Dex's. 

"What," Nursey says, and the angle of the streetlight makes his eyes luminous. Normally, the green is flashy and light, like willow leaves in a breeze. Up here, it's a luminous sea-green, like looking up at the sky through two feet of clear water. At this point, they've escaped so many parties together that he should be used to it.

The two of them have an unspoken agreement about the proper place to smoke: underneath the hallway window, so that the illicit substances are in neutral territory. When they started smoking together, Bitty had Jack and Chowder had Farmer, and it's too easy to hear things sitting under either of the bedroom windows. Chowder's still in the window on the right, and although he's not with Caitlin anymore, he took a break from substances to grapple with the responsibility of having the C. On the other hand, Tango's in Bitty's old room, and he's giving Shitty a run for his money as far as being SMH's top stoner. So now they sit almost shoulder-to-shoulder under the middle window out of habit, ostensibly.

Dex swallows, with effort. "Are you good?" It's the only thing he can think of to say, confronted as he is with the sprawling poetry of Derek Nurse.

Nursey nods, grinning brilliantly. "I'm excellent, William Poindexter. I'm really going places."

He is. Dex can name Nursey's top five MFAs, including which three of the five he had been accepted into. He could say which one Nursey was proudest to be accepted into (Iowa), which one he was tempted by (UMass Amherst-- _Ocean Vuong, Poindexter!_ ), and which one Dex was secretly rooting for (Boston). He isn't sure Nursey remembers what graduate program Dex is going into-- he'll be at Samwell another year to get his Master's in computer science.

"God, I can't believe anyone let you into their school," Dex says, aware of the extra rasp in his voice. He throws an arm over Nursey's right knee and rests his chin on his own shoulder. Nursey doesn't move his head any, he just looks at Dex out of the corner of his eye. The light tips of his dark eyelashes glow unfairly.

At this point, Dex knows he's practically on Nursey's lap because he wants to be there. In the most embarrassing sense of the word want, the one he would have denied on a different level in every year of college so far. As a freshman, of course, he would never have voluntarily been in the same room as Derek Nurse. As a sophomore, he would have balked at the idea that he had the urge to press his lips to the soft-looking patch of skin under Derek Nurse's right ear, the coarser skin of his Adam's apple, and the curve of Derek Nurse's lips, which could have felt any number of ways.

And as a junior, Dex Poindexter would never _really_ want Derek Nurse. Anyone else was conceivable: Bitty, of the fascinating baker's hands; Ransom, able to command his handsomeness and charisma with the _ease_ of the lifelong cool-kid; even Chowder, who was as intense as he was kind. And he cycled through them all, now that he was allowed to, without feeling any sense of urgency about it. When Bitty thanked him for fixing the toaster, or Ransom leaned gracefully into a dark-haired girl at a post-Falconer's kegster, or Chowder sobbed into Dex's chest after things ended with Farmer, he felt a luxurious pang of desire between his chest and his stomach. It felt like a guitar string vibrating in his ribcage, and it hurt in a decisive, satisfying way. He felt rooted by the certainty of that longing. It was the twinge of being just a little in love, and it was a relief after all the pressing-down he did in high school.

Once, the cute brown-haired server at Jerry's had winked at him from across the restaurant, and Dex had felt the zing of interest with such delighted clarity that he started laughing.

By comparison, what he feels for Derek Nurse is incommensurable. That's a Nursey word, from some class on French-language African literature, which is yet another way that Dex feels eaten up. Nursey's presence is a monolith, smooth-sided, so big that Dex can only really see one corner of it. He makes Dex feel hollowed-out, pressed-upon, cold around the edges, _frustrated_. He thinks he wants to sleep with Nursey. He thinks he wants to be in love with Nursey. Mostly, he is chasing the feeling of a pitch-dark, three A.M. conversation in their room when it feels like no one else is alive.

Dex closes his eyes. He's still buzzing, hyperaware of the hair standing up on his ankle where it's exposed to the air.

There is a sound, from the porch, of a glass bottle falling to the ground. There is the pressure of Nursey's lips.

_So that's what that's like,_  Dex thinks. Nursey's nose is cold, where it's pressing into Dex's cheek, but his lips are warmer than he expected. They're very slightly chapped. For a moment, everything is still; they are the one fixed point on an earth that is very much still turning. When Dex feels Nursey begin to pull away, he finally kisses back, tilting his head up to make things easier. He opens his mouth and grazes Nursey's bottom lip with his teeth. It's simpler to sit up, to fit his right hand to Nursey's jaw, and to kiss him again, from the top, with feeling, pressing him into the wall behind them.

This is the extent of the world for somewhere in the way of fifteen minutes: Nursey's tongue in Dex's mouth, his ear bracketed by Dex's thumb and forefinger, rattling windows when the song becomes bass-heavy, and cold March air on the backs of both of their necks.

Dex feels like he is trying to dig a hole with a plastic fork. The urgency of their movements plateaus, then drops off. Dex is left in the last, static kiss, neither of them moving in or out of the moment.

When Nursey pulls back, Dex is both surprised and not to find that he has not changed. He's lovely and lazy-looking and they still want something from each other, but are no closer to figuring out what.

"You're good at that," Nursey says, working his fingers through the hair on top of Dex's head.

"You're an ass," Dex replies.

They stare at each other for a long moment. "This is an extremely bad idea," Dex says, when Nursey doesn't seem to have anything urgent to add to the conversation.

Nursey looks frustrated, for reasons Dex can't exactly nail down. He just grips the hair on top of Dex's head again, then lets it go.

This time next year, they don't have to see each other if they don't want to. Which probably means they won't see each other at all, and that comforts Dex more than it disturbs him. This disagrees with the blunt force of Nursey's presence, intruding in his chest. Really, though, Dex thinks, that'll be a relief. Even if I'm not supposed to ever understand Derek Nurse, I don't have to spend my whole life trying.

"Let's go back in," Nursey suggests.

* * *

 

They have sex for the first and only time on Dex's bed, the night before graduation. Nursey presses into him desperately, solidly, and Dex sees electric red when he closes his eyes. It does not feel like he thought it would, not monumentally different from anyone he's had before. He comes with Nursey's breath hot in his ear.

"It's funny," Dex says after. "That was going to be so important."

The room is pitch-black, and Nursey is already back in the top bunk, clearly on the edge of sleep. Dex barely catches his voice as it floats down on a very slight current of cold air from the open window.

"Don't worry, Poindexter. We will be." 


	2. Will / Derek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy one year anniversary to the first half of this fic!! i figured it was the right time to finally finish her. especially because it's finals week. have some "i'll see you in the future when ur older" fluff. title again from an ocean vuong poem; i'm so sorry ocean

"Dr. Poindexter?" Lucas calls, and Will doesn't bother correcting him. It'll be accurate soon enough anyway; he's set to defend his dissertation in the next couple of weeks.

He always used to correct people. _Not a doctor, just a professor_ , he said, back when teaching was just a way to stay sharp outside of his boring cybersecurity job. Back before he realized how much he liked being here. "What's up?" he asks as he rounds the corner of the computer table.

Before Lucas can get his question out, Hallway Guy's volume increases again: "Obviously I'm in favor; I'm the lazy artist-"

Lucas waits patiently for the conversation to die down, but Will is honestly getting pretty irritated at this point. And his temper's a lot better than it used to be, so that's saying something.

He just has a thing about the sanctity of a computer lab, the gentle clacking of keyboards and the blue-gray glow that seeps through the windows when the overhead lighs are off. Technically, they're not in class, so he can't really get angry that someone else is using the building. He could close the door, but the rooms in the ISEC are kind of overheated, and he's not in the mood to sweat through the next hour of lab time. But some guy has been on his phone talking shop for at least half an hour now, occasionally reaching a crescendo as he paces past the door, and it's getting obnoxious.

"Okay," Lucas starts, once the blessed quiet returns. "I'm just having trouble with-"

"I mean, can I take on the commitment while we're doing promotion for the new-"

"Jesus Christ," Will says. "Sorry, everyone, just give me a second."

He strides toward the entrance to the computer lab, trying to think of a polite way to approach this. It's just, the ISEC is so huge; there have to be a million other places for Hallway Guy to have his conversation. By the time he steps into the hall, he has a sentence that he feels is appropriately neutral with a hint of disapproval. "Hey," he says as he rounds the doorjamb. "Is there any way you could-"

"Oh, fuck I'm sorry," Hallway Guy says, before turning to face Will. "I didn't realize-"

Derek Nurse looks up at him.

Somehow, those two things feel separate.

"What are-"

"Poindexter!"

"Shit!"

"I'm so sorry, man, let me just-" Derek starts, then realizes he's still on the phone. "Sorry, Inez, can I call you back?"

Will waves the apology away. "It's good to see you, man," he says, and he's telling the truth. It takes a second to really look at Derek Nurse. Even in the horrible, buzzy fluorescent lighting, he looks offensively great. He's got a beard, to begin with. He has a beard and the beginnings of crow's feet and his linen button-down hits a number of important places on his shoulders and chest.

"Seriously, I apologize," says Derek Nurse, who is somehow in the hallway outside of Will's computer lab. "I get loud on the phone without- but you know that."

"I do," Will replies with a laugh, enthusiasm starting to inflate in his chest. Derek shuffles in embarrassment, dipping his chin and looking up in a disconcertingly attractive way. He is still golden, with willow-leaf eyes. He's the same height and width and he still makes Will slightly hysterical. "So, uh, how the hell are you here?"

Derek's smile lines begin to appear. "Well, I'm on campus for work, and I actually was going to your office- the front desk said your office hours were right now? And I found the office, but you weren't in there, and my agent called, and. You know. Loud."

Will's stomach starts to lift hopefully toward the top of his ribcage, and he runs a hand through his hair, which he's sure looks like shit. "No, man, I mean, technically it is my office hours but I tend to actually have them in the computer lab because, you know, it's just more helpful for my students. Most of them don't have the software or the processing power on their PCs, and I'd rather see what they're doing in person, and that's super boring. I'm sorry." He realizes abruptly that they're mirroring each other, weight towards the left hip, right hand rubbing the back of the neck. Derek Nurse grins.

"So, are you busy?" he asks.

"Well, kind of," Will says. "My lab hours end in like forty-five minutes, if you want to- to hang around in my office or something until everybody's done. Normally I'd just close up early, but finals are coming up." Derek Nurse keeps smiling at him. It's bashful, which is a word Will has never wanted to use to describe another human being in his life. "I mean, if you want to, obviously you don't. Have to."

"That'd be great," Derek Nurse blurts, with a little awkward half-gesture. "I'd be happy to wait."

Will steps down the corridor to unlock his office door and let him in; Derek sits down on the opposite side of Will's desk, where his students perch nervously during office hours.

"You can sit in the nice chair, dude," Will chirps. "You're a big boy."

Derek rolls his eyes, which used to be Will's move, but he also seems to relax. "Thanks, Dexy."

He holds eye contact with Derek just a second too long as he's backing out of the office, and he squeaks when he hits his elbow on the doorknob. Derek laughs, and as Will is almost out the door he says, "Hey Poindexter."

He turns back to see Derek laying a notebook full of index cards and post-its flat on his desk. "Yeah?"

Derek Nurse grins at him, eyes scrunched up. "I like the glasses."

 

There's really no recovering lab time from there. He does eventually answer Lucas's question; he even opens up his own laptop to get a little work done. Every once in a while, he looks into the gray stillness of the lab with the distinct feeling that his embarrassed glow is visible and distracting to someone besides himself. He feels a little too flustered to be the person in charge of this cool, organized room full of screens. Some blend of anxiety and excitement spins in his stomach.

It's been a while since he thought about Derek Nurse. Chris is still in touch with both of them, of course. In the couple of years after graduation, they sent the occasional text back and forth, but as Will had suspected, post-grad keeping-up took a lot of energy even when you really had a bond with someone. Communication with the roommate he had weathered an intense attraction to wasn't exactly at the top of Will's priorities. 

Every once in a while, he misses the hockey team, but it's hard to revisit any of the things that had made it so important. Samwell was so- so formative. Everything about it had been so vital to Will's self-understanding that the memories almost give him a headache, like remembering the specifics of a fever. And he's not even a nostalgic person; no, he's the champion of the plow-forward. He had hung onto his friendships with Bits, Chris, Justin, with Daniella, who he'd bonded with on the hunt for paid IT internships, but he had not distracted himself with renovating difficult memories into something sentimental. He just pressed on.

Things are different at thirty-two than at twenty-two, though, and stepping into the hallway to remember Derek Nurse is something pleasant. Like discovering that whiskey is good when it doesn't cost eleven dollars at the Stop & Shop.

Will stands with his back to the door, holding it open for his students to trickle into the hallway, as he makes eye contact with Derek through his cracked office door. He finishes whatever phone call he's on, then emerges into the hallway with a gentle smile.

It's impossible not to smile back at him. "So, what happened to _your_ glasses?" he asked. "I remember the Clark Kents."

Will used to be embarrassed about his glasses, thin-rimmed and gold and flattering, how they betrayed that he cared about his appearance. But now that all makes him feel like an adult, sort of the way that owning genuinely nice dress shoes does.

"LASIK, sadly," Derek replies. "I was trying to buck an artsy stereotype, or something."

He nods at one of Will's lingering students.

"Can we help you, Emem?" Will asks, a little confused by her nervous energy. Emem is one of his favorites, which is totally allowed when you teach college students, a compulsive smiler who works harder than God, but now she's hovering between the two of them silently, looking sort of anxious, opening her mouth and closing it again as she glances back and forth.

"Professor Poindexter, I'm sorry to interrupt," she says.

Once upon a time his instinct would have been to get snippy- just ask the question, it's not that hard. He was a total hardass when he first started TAing; students learned that he didn't give extensions for anything less than slipping into a coma an hour before the due date. But he's had enough students now that he doesn't make assumptions anymore. He slips easily into his professor voice: "It's no problem at all," he says. "Is there something you needed to talk to me about?"

Emem is a self-assured young woman with a good head on her shoulders, even if she's currently going through the Clark Kent glasses stage that Derek once did, so Will is secretly amused by the way her voice wobbles when she talks. "Um- actually- are you Derek Nurse?" she finally blurts.

When Will turns back to Derek in surprise, he's looking back at him with the remainder of a fond smile, and suddenly he and Emem have a wooziness in common. Derek looks to Emem and transitions into something smoother, more polished. "I am," he replies, and his voice is slightly lower now, which sends something zinging through Will's stomach. "Are you Emem?" 

She laughs, having clearly collected herself. "I'm sorry," she says. "I wasn't absolutely sure it was you, and I don't want to bother you or anything. It's just that _Crouch_ is one of my favorite, favorite poetry collections. You totally deserved the Pushcart."

"That's really kind of you to say," Derek says, in a tone that reminds Will of post-game interviews. "But I think I need to work another decade at least to earn an award like that. Otherwise it just feels disingenuous, right?"

He's smiling in a way that short-circuits Will's brain a little bit- always has- so Will can't be blamed for interrupting. "You're up for awards now? For your- your poetry?"

There are a select few computer science majors that are socially competent, and they tend to act fondly proprietary of their professors. Emem is among this group, and she looks amusedly at Will before roasting him. "Yeah, for his poetry," she says. "He's in the _Paris Review_! He's a big deal!"

"Well look at you, Derek Nurse," Will says, and though Derek wears the same cool facade he always did, he looks a little flustered, one hand fiddling with the buttons on his cardigan. Will wonders if he ever noticed that at Samwell- it seems obvious now, but he's pretty sure he didn't. "Must have improved since your beanie days. You still pretend you don't listen to Coldplay while you write?

Derek reaches out, laughing, to smack Will on the shoulder. "Hey Emem," he starts. "Your professor ever tell you about the time he woke up in a-"

Will cuffs him on the back of the head. "Leave me with a little bit of dignity, please," he stage-whispers.

Emem giggles, then makes a face at her watch. "I'm really sorry, I have a class to get to, but it was really great to meet you and I'm really looking forward to the reading tonight! And I won't be able to stay for the signing, so I had to say that I just really love your work, and 'Scotch Bonnet' is my favorite. It reminds me so much of my mom."

There's a particular smile that Will didn't see often at Samwell- a slowly-opening one, which made the right side of Derek's mouth tick up slightly more than the left. He can't believe he remembers it, but it's back now as Derek shakes Emem's hand. "That's really kind of you," he says. "It reminds me of my mom, too."

"So you're one of the featured writers here?" Will asks as Emem dashes down the hallway. "That's what 'on campus for work' means?"

"I mean, yeah," Derek mutters, fiddling with his cell phone. "It just sounds kind of douchey to say."

Will laughs. "I'm in grad school," he says. "I'm pretty immune to douchiness at this point."

"Yeah, how's that for unexpected?" Derek replies, something soft in his voice, before he checks the time on his phone. "Shit, I'm really sorry, but I actually have to get going to this dinner they have beforehand with some of the writing kids- I just wanted to stop by and say hi."

Will shakes himself a little. "Oh, yeah, of course, man, I'm really glad you did. We should, uh, we should catch up," he says.

When Derek pulls him in for a hug, Will goes easily. He feels like a sunwarmed stone, and he smells like a new cologne and the same cocoa butter; Will has to remind himself to pull back after a second. "So I'll see you later then?" Derek asks as he starts to back down the hallway.

"Yeah, I'll see you," Will calls.

Predictably, Derek makes it about five yards before he trips over his own feet. "Looking good, Nurse," he yells, and it's hard to see from a distance but he thinks he sees Derek wink before he gets back up and turns the right direction, disappearing around the corner.

As he opens his office door, Will is grinning so hard his cheeks hurt. There's a scrap of paper on his otherwise-pristine desk, and when he picks it up, he sees a hastily-scrawled string of ten numbers, and then: 

_Because I'm sure I'll forget when I see you. DN._

* * *

 

Will goes to the reading. Of course he goes; he spends the next few hours smiling absently at his email inbox instead of getting any work done, and he adds the contact to his phone and stares at that for a while. He's surprised to note that it's not anything like it was back at Samwell. He feels a pleasant buzz somewhere around his shoulderblades, an excitement to see this new, reshaped Derek Nurse, who really looks at people when they talk. He gets there almost half an hour early, so e buys one of Derek's books,  _Grafting,_ partially because it's the slimmest but partially because it's also the earliest one, and settles toward the back of the auditorium to read.

He doesn't know anything about poetry, not really, but he likes this. Nursey-Derek had never let any of them read what he wrote, least of all Will, so he's surprised by how measured and rhythmic the writing feels. It doesn't always make sense, but it doesn't get flowery. Somehow, though, it reminds him of the version of Derek he knew back then. There's one poem, "Childish," which is kind of about music and kind of about sex, that has a line about crawling through a window onto a roof and then into the body of a confusing boy that makes Will's face heat up.

The reading itself is mostly newer poetry, things that are either unreleased or from the most recent book. Derek accepts the attention graciously; he patters as he flips from poem to poem. Will remembers how much Derek liked to be seen in college, but how he always ducked compliments about things he cared about. This is different. An odd sense of pride settles in Will's chest as he sees how much sturdier the outlines of Derek Nurse have grown.

There are questions and answers, and then the main event is over and some staffer announces that Derek will be signing books in the lobby from nine to nine-thirty. Will figures this is his time to duck out through the back, so he quickly texts:  _congrats on being a big deal. but actually. i liked the last one, the one about grapefruits or something_

He steps out into the night, taking in a deep breath of the November air that had become painfully cold while he was inside. His phone chimes, and as he stops to read the notification, he hears a  _psst._

It's Derek, leaning against the wall near corner of the building. "You didn't have to come," he says, smiling broadly.

"I wanted to," Will replies simply. "What are you doing out here?"

Boston is bitterly cold when it gets dark, even for a native New Englander, so Will hunches his shoulders as he walks over. Derek flips a pack of nicotine gum out of his jacket pocket and shrugs. "Not thinking about smoking," he says.

"Oh, man, and you're trying so hard to buck the artsy stereotypes," Will chirps.

"Correction: I _was_ trying," Derek says. "I am now living openly as a cliché, and I've never felt so free."

Will wonders if he's standing slightly closer to Derek than he needs to. The halogen lights of the parking lot are daylight-bright, and Will can see both of their breath in the air as he laughs. "Aren't you supposed to be talking to your admirers right now?"

Derek's cheeks are pink, and they scrunch up under his eyes as he chews his gum and tries not to smile. "They give me a little break in between, to calm down. But I do have to go back in soon."

"Sure, sure," Will says, backing away just slightly. He tries not to sound disappointed.

"Although," Derek says quickly. "I have something I want to make sure you get. Are you busy after this? Have to- I don't know, get home to anybody?"

His lips purse in as soon as the sentence is out, and Will's heart thuds. Just to let him know what it thinks of the whole thing. His face is going numb, so feels a little clumsy when he says, "No, no, not unless feeding my neighbor's cat counts."

There's the smile again. The rare one. "Okay," Derek says. The green in his eyes is pale and luminous, and Will notices Derek's gaze tracking to a few different places on his face.

"I forgot to eat dinner," Will admits. "So I'm gonna head home, but do you want to come over whenever you're done?"

"Sounds good."

Derek jumps when his phone burbles- presumably someone telling him it's time to come back in. "So, uh, I'll see you later?" Will says as he starts toward the parking garage.

"See you later," Derek replies, and he disappears back through the door.

* * *

"Nice place," Derek says, nose still red from outdoors. He smells like clean air and that cologne from earlier, like he'd put on a little extra in the car.

Will smiles.

His apartment isn't anything fancy; the linoleum counters and mauve carpet make it obvious that it was last renovated in the mid-90s. But Will put real effort into making it feel like home- photos of his family in the hallway, a sturdy bookshelf against the wall under the windows. The living room set, inherited from his older brother, is oatmeal-colored and on the stiffer side, but Will tossed enough throw pillows and blankets onto everything to make it cozy. He has the lamps set up the way he likes them- warm, not too bright- and he watches from the other side of the kitchen counter as Derek looks around, humming appreciatively.

"You like cabernet?" Will asks. "I just opened that bottle on the coffee table."

"Sure, thanks," Derek says. "So, you're like a hot professor who knows things about wine now."

Will inhales a little bit of his own drink, tries to keep it cool, fails. "Go ahead and throw stones, Pushcart guy. I looked it up. I know what that is now."

"Whatever," Derek says, pretending not to be pleased. "Oh! That reminds me."

He reaches into the coat he laid over the arm of the couch and pulls out a copy of one of the other books, the newest one. He looks a little embarrassed as he hands it over: "Can you make sure Emem gets that? I just- I wanted to return the appreciation."

"Sure, of course," Will agrees.

Derek excuses himself to go to the bathroom, and Will thumbs through the book while he's gone. The title page has Derek's signature on it, but about halfway back, one of the other pages is dog-eared. When he turns to it, he sees a longer note, in ballpoint instead of the thick black autograph Sharpie. It's tucked around the margins of a poem called 'Scotch bonnet'- the one Emem had said was her favorite. Will smiles, and suddenly Derek's back on the other end of the couch, looking shy. "It might be dumb to give out copies of your own stuff, but, I don't know," he says. "She seems like a nice kid."

Will can feel his own expression going soft as he looks up from the book at Derek. "Yeah, she really is."

"You're not as prickly as you used to be," Derek says. Will can feel that he's close the way you just feel that someone lying next to you in bed is close, except Derek is on the far side of the couch. They hold for a beat, then two.

"Can I get you another drink?" Will asks, just for something to do with his hands.

Except even then, after he'd tried to get up and move around and break the spell, it just fell back over them both. There on his brother's ugly old couch. It felt exactly like three p.m. the day after an all-nighter, moving through syrup, that irresistible pull to shut your eyes like a blanket dropping over you. Holding himself back from leaning into Derek feels like fighting the tide.

The rest of the wine goes quickly. Will, turned into kind of a lightweight in his old age, is delighted to feel himself go kind of loose and giggly around the edges.

He's talking ad nauseam about his niece Amelia when he realizes there's a new Nursey expression, or at least one he hasn't seen before. Derek is snickering at him, kind of, as Will waves his hands around his head, and his nose is just crinkled. Not in disgust, but in a kind of elementary glee, like looking at Will is-- fun. He very distinctly feels his heart thud and then sigh, like a beach ball spiked into the water and then rising up on a wave. With his heart so far up in his chest, Will can't help but laugh.

They talk like people who don't want to leave. They catch up on family and careers and people they almost married and why Dex left startup hell and how Derek will move to Boston in May for a new teaching position. Will barely notices the time passing, but he does notice that Derek has the same dumb sense of humor, although he laughs louder now. He's just settling into the highlight reel of Derek's clumsiest moments, delighted that it's all still funny after a decade, like opening up a dusty box in an attic to see some ornament he'd forgotten about, somehow brighter than the day he put it away.

He lets Derek howl with laughter for a moment at the memory of bonking his head on the boards of the Harvard arena just as the camera panned over to them. Will lifts his wine glass to the ceiling light and picks at the sticker on the bottom, trying to hide his joy at how uncomplicated it had suddenly become to make Derek laugh.

"Do you-" Derek wheezes. "Do you remember the noise?"

Tears start forming in Will's eyes as yes, he does remember. Derek manages to collect himself enough to sit upright and make that clicking noise, that Drag-Race-Season-11 noise, and it really does sound exactly like the plastic front of Derek's helmet bouncing off the barrier to the ice.

He laughs so hard he drops his wine glass all the way down his front.

"Oh fuck, man, I'm sorry," Derek blurts, still laughing a little. Will is limp with giggles, stomach cramping, and he just lets Derek drag him around the corner to the kitchen.

There's a medium-sized cabernet stain directly down the middle of his oatmeal-colored sweater, but he's too hysterical with laghter and the rest of the wine and the general proximity of Derek to do anything besides weakly gesture at the cold water tap.

He lets himself lean on Derek, who's giggling too, but not catatonic. He nudges Will forward against the sink, pulls the bottom of his sweater under the running water, and fruitlessly kind of rubs the stain against itself. "You are a hot mess, man. Real adult, my ass. Neither of us are real adults," Derek says, and he sounds so fond. He has always had an amber-warm voice, and Will wishes abstractly that he could curl up in it.

The bright white lighting in his kitchen isn't exactly romantic. Neither is being manhandled and drenched because he spilled grape juice all over himself like a third grader. But he is so, so aware of the way Derek's hands look, clumsy and capable, as they stretch out the front of his sweater, and he's aware of exactly how close Derek is as he leans over, past Will, to see what he's doing. He manages to bring Derek's face, whisper-close, into focus for just a second. The skin under his eyes, the texture of his lips, looks lacework-delicate.

Will ducks forward- only a few inches, really- to kiss him.

This time it feels like- like the way the air shifts when you board a plane. Like finding your favorite piece in an art museum, like pausing to stand in front of it, letting the rest of your tour group trail on ahead. Kissing Derek Nurse- one hand on his right wrist, the other hesitantly slotting into place under his ear and along his jaw- feels like  _finding_ something, both on-purpose and coincidental. His lips are warm, and Will brushes his thumb gently along Derek's cheekbone even as he tries to stay still.

Last time, this moment had felt like cliff diving in the dark and never hitting water, falling and falling and falling. This time, as Derek reels Will in by the damp front of his sweater until they're pressed together from hip to shoulder, Will feels like he's opening his own front door to find that the world outside is suddenly blanketed in white. Letting Derek pull the sweater over his head, pressing kisses to his wrists when they take a moment to untangle from the sleeves, that feels like taking the first few steps and seeing that every twig on every branch is gilded with its own thin coat of snow, the moment that always makes his heart dip in his chest. Derek presses him back into the kitchen counter. Will feels at once close to and very far from that past version of himself, half-imagines that he's catching the lung-crackingly brisk air up in the reading room.

Derek's hands are cold. Will cups them against his chest, and he kisses Derek like a wave sliding up onto a beach- kisses him in a way that intends, and intends, and intends.

* * *

The first of many, many times they fall asleep together, Will is barely awake as the sound of November wind wraps itself around the corner of his building. He's nearly buried under a mound of blankets, head resting on Derek's chest and arms wrapped around his waist. They are breathing in tandem, except when Will drags his fingertips down Derek's ribs and makes him shiver.

"What are you thinking?" Derek asks, back of his hand brushing gently over Will's shoulderblade.

"I'm thinking," Will says honestly, and he props his chin on Derek's chest as he does so, "that this is going to be important."

"Yeah," Derek says, and he traces the outline of Will's right ear with one relaxed finger. He leans forward to kiss Will's hairline, very gently, and then smiles as he lies back. "Yeah, I think you're right."

 

 


End file.
